


Templar’s Nightmare

by moxanna



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: But no description, Implied abuse or harassment of some kind, M/M, Pre-Relationship, Pre-champion, Red-Purple Hawke, description of violence, fluff i guess?, nothing too graphic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-20
Updated: 2017-03-20
Packaged: 2018-10-08 05:55:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,493
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10379958
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/moxanna/pseuds/moxanna
Summary: Big brother Hawke has a few choice words for a Templar about his sister.





	

Game night at the Hanged man, and Anders was losing as usual. But that wasn’t what was bothering him just then. He was more concerned with the off duty Templars at the bar.

Hawke was late again, and Anders felt like a rabbit ready to spring. He was fidgeting with his robes and trying to keep his staff under the table.

Anders only felt safe with Hawke at his back.

“Relax, Blondie. You know how he likes to make an entrance. He’ll be here.”

And sure enough, an hour later, Hawke boomed through the door with his usual exuberance.

To the casual observer, Hawke might appear every bit his usual self. He strode into the tavern with an easy smile and ready laugh, playfully trading jabs with the serving girls as he scanned the room. But Anders could see that his roguish grin didn’t match the steel in his eyes. His laid-back stance didn’t quite hide the hard set of his shoulders. Anders knew that look. Someone was about to be very badly injured, very soon.

Anders cast a discreet look around the table. He wasn’t the only one who had noticed. Fenris shifted into a ready stance. Isabela downed the last of her drink and sauntered to the bar, watching Hawke out of the corner of her eye. Varric surreptitiously dragged Bianca to his side from where she was leaning against the wall. Merrill was shooting Hawke furtive glances from behind her hand of cards, which she had started nervously rearranging. And Aveline… Aveline just sighed.

Anders could see the moment Hawke found his prey. He wasn’t even going to pretend he wasn’t elated that it was the group of templars at the bar. Hawke walked up to one with matted ginger hair and flashed a winning smile.

“Excuse me, serah, but are you Ser Mettin?”

The templar looked Hawke up and down and crossed his arms. “I might be. Who wants to know?”

Hawke’s smile widened dangerously.

“I just wanted to thank the man who's keeping us all safe from those mages. Everyone says that you're the best at it.”

Hawke offered his right hand, apparently for a friendly shake. The templar reluctantly took it.

The templar’s next words were lost to a most undignified scream. Hawke had grabbed Mettin’s right arm at the wrist and sharply turned it outward while bracing the forearm with his other hand, effectively snapping Mettin’s forearm in half in one swift gesture. The sickly crack of bone was barely heard over the templar’s shrieks. Anders heard Merrill’s sharp intake of breath beside him, but the rest of his companions kept a firm mask of indifference as they continued their game.

"My sister tells me you’re a friend of hers,” Hawke said casually, raising his voice only slightly so as to be heard over the howls of pain. Hawke continued to smile blithely, as though the two were merely discussing the weather, as the templar writhed in his grasp. The sight made Hawke look more than a little unhinged. Though, to be fair, that wasn't exactly an uncommon look for him. Mettin’s fellow templars cautiously drew their weapons but kept a careful eye on the massive axe bound to Hawke’s broad shoulders.

“Si-sister?” Ser Mettin gasped.

“That’s right. My dear sister Bethany. Bethany _Hawke_.”

Comprehension briefly dawned on the templar’s face. Followed immediately by abject terror.

“Ah, then you have heard of me.” Hawke looked over to their table. “What, are you taking weekend trips to the Gallows to talk me up Varric?”

“Never underestimate how quickly the tales of your heroism can spread, Hawke,” Varric said with a chuckle, leaning back in his chair.

During this exchange, Mettin frantically searched the tavern for anyone to come to his rescue. The only patrons of the tavern that paid any mind to the brewing brawl looked eager at the arrival of entertainment so early in the night. A few appeared to be placing bets. Most, however, were putting as much space as possible between themselves and the infamous warrior. Even the templar’s fellows took a step back from the very large, possibly deranged man at the sound of his name. Mettin’s eyes grew more frantic as he searched the room. Relief briefly passed upon his features when he saw the fiery pauldrons of the guard-captain, only to fade once more when he saw her pointedly looking down at her cards. Mettin slowly looked back to the face of his aggressor. Hawke’s easy grin was starting to look more like a leer, and he kept a firm hand on Mettin’s now limp wrist.

“You know what I love about this city, Ser Mettin? Besides, of course, the cheerful denizens and sweet smell of rotting garbage in the morning?” Hawke asked conversationally. Mettin whimpered. “The sheer abundance of dark back alleys there are. It seems you can’t turn a corner without ending up in some abandoned corner of the city where no one cares if they hear you scream.”

Anders distinctly heard a fellow from the next table whisper to his friend, “Ten silvers says Hawke rips off his arm and beats him to death with it.” Varric looked smug.

Mettin’s face was starting to turn yellow. Hawke was slowly but surely twisting the broken arm outwards, forcing the templar to his knees.

“You don’t really notice it, do you, until you’re walking around late at night?” Hawke continued. “Skulking in the shadows, perhaps shaking down a mage’s family on your way to the tavern? And suddenly, it hits you,” Hawke suddenly wrenched harder on Mettin’s wrist. The templar yowled. “How easy it would be for someone to sneak up behind you and rearrange the contents of your skull.”

Anders felt a happy jolt in his stomach. He barely stopped himself from laughing out loud. It was Justice. Justice was actually enjoying himself. The spirit had begrudgingly accepted Anders’s occasional outings with Hawke due to his consistent anti-circle actions, but in the time since Anders had accepted Justice into his soul, he had never felt the spirit _happy_. And yet, the sight of a templar on his knees, keening from pain for the injustice he had wrought on a mage had given Justice more satisfaction than anything it had ever encountered.

“Are you actually implying-?”

“Implying? Dear Maker, no. I don't want you to give the impression that I'm _implying_ anything.” Hawke leaned in and dropped his voice to a harsh growl. “I generally only like to warn people once, so I want to make myself perfectly clear. If you so much as look at my sister the wrong way again, trust that I will know. And I swear on Andraste’s flaming pyre that when I’m done with you, they’ll need every healer in the Gallows to put you back together. Do you understand?”

“The Knight-Commander-”

Hawke wrenched the arm even harder. His arm was almost the whole way back around.

"Will never hear about this,” Hawke rumbled, still grinning like a loon. “You see, ser knight, you may have the power to make mages’ lives hell in there. But I have the power to make your life hell out here. So unless you plan to make yourself a another prisoner of the Gallows, I suggest you listen to me. So I'll give you one more chance to save your arm. _Do you understand_?”

“Yes! Maker yes!” Mettin gasped.

Hawke swiftly released his arm and brought him back to his feet by the collar of his armor.

“Good man!” Hawke boomed with a laugh. He clapped Ser Mettin hard on the back.

“Well, now that that’s settled, I think a drink is in order. Put it on his tab,” Hawke directed Norah with a wink.

The interested onlookers went back to their revelry with disappointed grumbles. Mettin tenderly cradled his arm and looked at Hawke in horror.

“You’re mad,” he said. “Completely barking.”

“So everyone keeps telling me, but who’s the first person they come crying to when their puppy gets lost in the Deep Roads.” Hawke sighed dramatically. “Ah, the fickle friend that is fame.”

Hawke collected his tankard and hit it against the templar’s. “Cheers. Don’t forget to tell all your friends about me.”

He made his way to the table and plopped heavily onto the bench next to Anders. Hawke carefully avoided Aveline’s disapproving glare, and the lecture that was sure to follow, with a cheerful look at Varric. “Deal me in?”

Hawke leaned in with his hand on Anders’s knee and whispered, “Enjoy the show?” Anders smiled, sure that the butterflies in his stomach had nothing to do with Justice.

“Are you kidding? Justice hasn't had this much fun in… well, ever I think."

Hawke smiled again, this time it brightened his whole face. “You know me. I aim to please.”

 

When Anders would remember this night years later, he would remember it as the night he realized he was in love with Garrett Hawke.


End file.
